


Most Inconvenient

by PixChuu22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babysitting, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Parentlock, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:44:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2298581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixChuu22/pseuds/PixChuu22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have taken on criminals and evil geniuses, but Molly Hooper has a new challenge for them: take care of her toddler and infant for the day. Sherlock accepts the challenge; it could be an interesting experiment, after all.</p><p>My take on "parentlock," coming from the experience of having two children of my own and first-hand knowledge of how thoroughly they can make you feel like a helpless idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Most Inconvenient

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenLadyAnne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenLadyAnne/gifts).



**9:30 am**

Sherlock Holmes was shrugging into his heavy wool Belstaff coat as he clattered down the stairs from their flat at 221B Baker Street, Dr. John Watson, his partner - in every sense of the word - following after as Sherlock rattled through a list of theories that could explain the recent suspicious death of a well-known up-and-comer working at The City. 

"...but only if he has contusions on his lower back just above his buttocks. It's entirely possible the pathologist missed them; things have been slipping ever since Molly decided to only work part-time so that she could stay at home with her children." 

"Right, so, we're going to the morgue? I thought we were going to brunch," John said, and Sherlock spun to face him with one hand resting on the front doorknob, brow creasing as he looked back up the stairs at John. 

"John, there's a possibility that Mr. Ruford was not murdered. The evidence waits in the morgue - we need only to look at it! And you're thinking about _brunch?"_

"Well, yes, considering you had me shagging you half the morning, burning calories without letting me pop into the kitchen for a snack, I am feeling a bit peckish now and we'd agreed to go out to brunch before you got this idea in your head of looking for contusions." 

"We can eat _after_ , John!" Sherlock said, throwing one hand up dramatically as he tore the front door open - and slammed to a stop, even going so far as to stumble back a startled step. 

"Sherlock! John! Thank God. I am running _so_ late!" Molly Hooper, part-time pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital, stepped into the flat with a wide-eyed baby in her arms and a suspiciously squinting three-year-old holding on to the pocket of her coat. Her long hair was in an artful updo with a few curled tendrils falling down the back of her neck and as she moved past Sherlock to get out of the cool October breeze, her coat opened a bit to reveal a dark chocolate brown formal dress. "My babysitter phoned; she has food poisoning from some dodgy sushi. I have to be at a wedding as the matron of honor in less than an hour and there's no one else to take Ginger and Tommy." 

"No one else?" John repeated, his eyes widening as the implications of those words sunk in. 

"Don is going to be in required 'sensitivity training' all day, or I'd ask him to leave work to watch them. You're my last hope." 

_"Us?"_ John said, incredulous. "Molly, we are the _last_ people -" 

"You're the _only_ people," Molly insisted. "I've phoned everyone and absolutely no one can take them today. They won't be much trouble, honestly. Tommy goes down for a nap around 1pm and Ginger will just watch the telly if you let her. She's toilet trained now, as long as you remind her every couple of hours. Please?" 

Sherlock had been pressing back against the wall, standing well away from Molly and the children. At her pleading, though, he slowly turned wide, startled eyes to look over at John. They met one another's gazes for a moment, and John saw the exact moment when Sherlock made his decision. John tensed, watching as Sherlock's expression changed from alarmed to inquisitive. 

"I've never had sole responsibility of children before," Sherlock admitted, stepping forward to stare intently at the baby in Molly's arms. 

"They're not hard," Molly promised. "Feed them, make sure Tommy gets his nap around 1pm, and I'll be back around 6:30 to pick them up." 

"This could be quite interesting," Sherlock admitted, leaning closer to the baby. The baby responded by throwing one small hand out and gripping tight to Sherlock's nose. 

"He does that," Molly confessed as the baby rhythmically squeezed Sherlock's nose. "Grabs hair and clothes, too, if you're holding him. I don't think he even really knows he's doing it." 

"Automatic gripping response. Like a primate," Sherlock said, his voice more nasal than normal from the small fist closing his nostrils. "Yes, all right, Molly. For today." 

There was a flurry of motion as Molly passed the baby into Sherlock's arms - it released his nose to grab double-fistfuls of his coat - and nudged the still-suspicious-looking three-year-old closer to John before dropping kisses on both children, telling them to behave, dropping a huge changing bag next to John's feet, and rushing out the door to the car that she'd left idling at the kerb. 

"This is a tremendously bad idea," John said, forcing a smile as he looked down at Ginger, who turned to look up at him with a frown and narrowed eyes. 

"It will be fascinating," Sherlock said. "A one day experiment. Of course, it will be considerably more difficult to get to the morgue now." 

" _No_ morgue," John insisted. "You can phone them with your suspicions." 

"What? No, John, I have to see if -" 

"We can't take a baby and a small child across the city to a _morgue_ , Sherlock. We can't take them _anywhere;_ we haven't any car seats for them." 

Sherlock frowned. "Cabs have seats." 

"Not the type they need to be in," John insisted, gesturing towards Molly's children. 

Sherlock paused; he wasn't really familiar with all the things that babies and children required. He'd never had cause to put much thought into it. John had several acquaintances with small children and had been exposed to the life of parents more frequently than Sherlock, so in this area, Sherlock bowed to his experience. 

With a sigh, Sherlock turned to head back upstairs to their flat. "Most inconvenient," he murmured, hefting the baby in his arms. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**10:30 am**

John stepped back into the flat, his arms full of bags of takeaway, blessing their favorite deli for delivering. Sherlock was standing on the sofa, surveying the thumbtacked papers from the two cases he was currently working on as Tommy, the baby, pulled himself into a standing position on the coffee table and began knocking things to the sitting room floor with ruthless efficiency. 

"Food's here," John said, and then stopped, eyes scanning the sitting room. He stepped into the kitchen and leaned out to look down the hallway. "Where's Ginger?" 

"She needed the toilet. I showed her where it was and left her to her own devices." 

"Jesus, Sherlock, she's _three!_ You can't leave a three-year-old unattended!" John said, dropping the bags of takeaway onto the countertop - there was absolutely no available space on the kitchen table; Sherlock's experiments had grown exponentially over the last fortnight - and rushed down the hall to the bathroom door. He tapped at it gently. "Ginger, it's John. I'm coming in." 

_"Nothing!"_ came the immediate response and John pressed a hand to his face, sighing. 

The opened door revealed the toilet roll had been spread over the entire room, even looping around the sink a few times. The sink was running on full blast, spattering water over the edges of the basin, and every bottle of shampoo, conditioner, or soap that Ginger could reach had been squeezed over the floor of the bathtub. Thankfully, Ginger herself was only slightly damp with a single smear of pearlescent green on the knee of her jeans. 

"Right," John said, standing in the doorway. "I uh... let's go put the telly on." 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**11:00 am**

"I don't _like_ toast," Ginger insisted, staring angrily down at her plate. This was he fifth thing she had refused, and they were rapidly running out of options in the bags of takeaway. 

"Is there anything you _do_ like?" John asked, his patience wearing thin. 

"Just give it to Tommy. He likes it. He likes _everything,"_ Ginger said. 

"He does, actually," Sherlock murmured from the sofa. He had set an array of foods out on the low coffee table and was watching as Tommy made his slow, careful way around the table, fat hands gripping the edges as he took sideways steps to get to the next offering of food. At each plate, he paused to shove a handful into his mouth before moving on. "I put some cold curry out and he even ate _that._ He's rather like a dog." 

"Please, don't compare Molly's son to a dog," John muttered, but he said it too softly for Sherlock to hear. He had given up trying to correct Sherlock's attitude towards the baby after the first hour. 

"I don't like toast," Ginger reminded him. She was sitting in his comfortable red cloth-covered armchair, legs stuck out straight in front of her on the cushion as she stared up at him doubtfully. "I don't like eggs. I don't like beans. I don't like -" 

"Yes, yes, I know," John cut her off before she could get going; he'd already had to listen to her entire list of 'don't like's in the last hour and it was a _thorough_ list. "What _do_ you like?" 

"Do we have biscuits? Give her biscuits," Sherlock said, nudging a pat of butter towards the baby. Tommy responded by grabbing it in his fist and shoving half of it into his mouth, smacking with appreciation. 

"I like biscuits! I like chocolate ones!" Ginger agreed, looking up at John with hopeful eyes. "Mummy says I can have them as a 'sometimes treat.' Is this sometimes?" 

"Fine. Yeah. Biscuits. Great," John said, turning and walking into the kitchen. If that was all Ginger would eat, that was what he would give her. Molly would probably kill them if she found out they'd been giving her three-year-old biscuits all day long, but John was in survival mode. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**12:00 pm**

"What is that _smell?"_ Sherlock asked some time later, sitting bolt upright from the sofa. He'd been happily watching Tommy making circles around the now-cleared coffee table for the last forty-five minutes, murmuring to himself occasionally about 'predictable paths' and 'variations upon a theme.' However, at the moment he looked absolutely aghast. "Has one of my experiments suddenly caught fire?" 

John looked up from the book he'd been browsing while Ginger sat on his lap watching the telly. His brows lowered as he considered, sniffing the air delicately. "I can't smell anything." 

"How can you not - oh, God!" Sherlock's eyes widened as Tommy made another revolution around the coffee table, passing just in front of the tall man. "I think it's the baby!" 

"Oh, right. We haven't changed his nappy since he's been here. Where did we put Molly's changing bag?" 

"It's here, at the end of the sofa. But, are you trying to tell me that Tommy made that odour?" 

"Sherlock, for God's sake..." John lifted Ginger from his lap, standing and turning to replace her in his armchair before walking over to lift Tommy. As soon as he had the baby in his arms, though, he pulled a face. "That _is_ fairly rank, but nothing worse than what I've experienced sharing a loo with a few hundred other recruits." 

"Then I'll leave the changing to you," Sherlock said, crawling across the couch on hands and knees to watch, wide-eyed and torn between fascination and horror. John sighed, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling before retrieving the changing bag and laying Tommy down. 

"John, what is that he's wearing?" 

"That's the nappy." 

"But it's tartan." 

"Did you filter it out when Molly was talking about using cloth nappies? They're reusable, so they don't add to landfills, and they come in colors and patterns," John said, digging through the changing bag to retrieve wipes and the wetbag that Molly put soiled nappies into. 

"I must have done. I didn't realize she was interested in environmentalism," Sherlock said, squinting at the tartan-patterned nappy with interest. 

"I think she just likes the patterns," John confessed, pulling two more nappies out of the bag. "Little fish on blue or scientific formulae on black?" 

"Obvious," Sherlock muttered, and John laughed, shoving the blue nappy back into the bag. 

"Stay back for a minute; this is the worst bit," John said, popping open the snaps holding the diaper closed. 

Sherlock was glad of his iron stomach. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**1:30 pm**

"He won't stop _whinging!"_ Sherlock said, his pale eyes wide as he looked across the sitting room to stare pleadingly at John. They'd agreed it was time for Tommy's nap, and Sherlock had laid the baby on the sofa. Instead of falling asleep, though, Tommy merely kept sitting himself up and crying, cheeks red and eyes squinted with ineffectual rage. 

"Well, you're doing it wrong," John said, leaving Ginger sitting on the kitchen floor with several ballpoint pens and a few sheets of printer paper. She was busily making scribbles with no discernible real world representations, but she seemed content so they were leaving well enough alone. 

"I've put him in a comfortable place. He's changed and he's had a bit more curry, so he can't be hungry. I've done everything that a human _needs_ to be able to rest peacefully," Sherlock said. 

"Rock him," John said, reaching down to lift the red-faced infant from the couch. He held Tommy to his chest and began to slowly sway from side to side. Almost instantly, the whinging powered down to a few soft whimpers. Tommy's hand came up, thrusting his first two fingers into his mouth as he stared, wet-eyed, at Sherlock across the sitting room. 

"Instantaneous," Sherlock murmured, stepping closer to watch. 

"Play something soothing on your violin," John offered. "Babies like music." 

Sherlock raised a doubtful eyebrow, but moved over to lift his violin from its case. He had tuned it the night before, and began to immediately play a Brahms lullabye, watching Tommy with interest. Within only a few seconds, the combination of music, swaying, and finger sucking had the baby's eyes sliding shut. Once his fingers fell limply from his mouth to draw a line of wetness down the front of John's button-up shirt, John moved over to lay the baby down on the sofa. 

"There," John whispered, stepping up next to Sherlock to rest his hand on the other man's lower back. "Nothing to it." 

"Do all babies respond like that?" 

"Hah. No. I've heard of some real terrors... but most do like swaying and music." 

"Fascinating." 

Sherlock was staring with fixed interest at the sleeping infant and John turned and stepped away to go check on Ginger in the kitchen. After a moment, he stepped back up beside Sherlock, speaking in a low voice. "Uh... do we have rubbing alcohol somewhere around the flat?" 

"Under the sink. Why?" 

"Ginger apparently got tired of drawing on the paper and moved on to her arms, legs, and shirt." 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**3:00 pm**

"John!" Sherlock shouted, his temper fraying. "Make her stop!" 

"Yeah, _trying,_ Sherlock!" John shouted back, making another ineffectual grab as Ginger skimmed past him, giggling madly. Apparently, her steady day's-long diet of biscuits had finally caught up with them, and she was now jet-propelled, making scampering loops of the sitting room and occasionally venturing into the kitchen, shrieking and laughing the entire time. John had been trying to grab her for the last five minutes, but every time he got close, she would reverse directions. 

Sherlock was stuck holding Tommy who was squealing in excitement as his sister raced through the flat. They'd both been trying to grab Ginger initially until Tommy had crawled into her path and she'd stepped on his back before continuing her mad race. Sherlock had used John's earlier swaying technique to calm the baby while John had resumed trying to catch the sugar-fueled three-year-old. 

Sherlock saw an opening as Ginger skidded wide around John's grasping hands to try and skirt past the coffee table. He stuck his leg out, catching her as she went by and sending her tumbling to the ground where she skidded across the hardwood floor only to have her momentum slam her into the legs of Sherlock's armchair. For a second, there was a startled silence and then Ginger began to wail at a volume that far exceeded her excited squeals of a moment before. 

"Oh, brilliant," John shouted over the noise, glaring daggers at Sherlock. 

"At least she's stopped running," Sherlock offered, grimacing as the wails swelled. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**4:30 pm**

More biscuits and a plaster over the small cut on her forehead calmed Ginger down and they had some peace while she returned to watching the telly. Sherlock had tried to look at a few prepared slides, but Tommy had crawled after him. After pulling himself up using Sherlock's trouser leg as leverage, Tommy had started bouncing and crowing at the top of his voice, refusing to stop until Sherlock finally picked him up in frustration. As soon as Tommy was in the tall man's arms, he quieted down and settled in to suck at the bit of shirt collar closest to him. Sherlock cast one last, longing glance back at his microscope before moving in to the sitting room once again. 

John was just setting his newspaper aside as Sherlock walked in, balancing the baby awkwardly as Tommy took turns sucking on the collar and then mashing it between his fat fists. John smiled faintly before glancing at his watch and rising to walk over to Ginger. 

"Come on, Ginger, let's try a trip to the bathroom," John said, holding a hand out to the small girl. 

"Don't need to," Ginger said. 

"It's been a couple of hours; you need to at least _try,"_ John insisted. 

"Already went." Ginger looked up at John, making an unhappy face. "My trousers are wet." 

"Your trousers... you... on my chair?" John asked, his voice weak with dismay. 

"No, on that rug," Ginger said, pointing. "Then I sat back in the chair." 

John rubbed his face briskly with both hands, breathing heavily as he turned to look over at Sherlock. Tommy had one hand thrust down the front of Sherlock's button-up shirt, the other one flailing at Sherlock's face as the tall man twisted his head in an effort to avoid the fist going into his mouth. "Where's the changing bag? There might be extra clothes for Ginger in it." 

"It's back at the side of the fffmmm." The last word turned into a garbled sound as Tommy succeeded in shoving one fist into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock reached up to pull the baby's hand free while John gathered the changing bag and began digging through it in the hopes of finding clothes that were not covered in wee. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**5:30 pm**

Ginger and Tommy were both wailing. Ginger said that the jeans John had put on her were pinching her and that she wanted her _other_ trousers back even if they _were_ soaked in wee. Tommy wasn't saying anything, but it was clear from his body language that he had reached his limit for the day. 

John was standing helplessly next to Ginger as the girl increased her volume and stomped her feet faster and faster on the floor. 

Sherlock was holding Tommy and twisting his head away with a slightly panicked expression, trying to preserve his hearing as the baby's squeals grew shriller with each gasping inhalation. 

The noise was so great that neither man heard Mrs. Hudson's gentle tap and 'ooo hoo!' of greeting as she opened the sitting room door. 

"Mummy's here!" Molly shouted, somehow managing to overpower the cacophony of her children. Instantly, both children switched tracks. Ginger stormed across the sitting room to wrap herself around both of Molly's legs while Tommy started reaching with both arms and issuing excited grunts. 

"I'm sorry to just pop in and then out again, but Don got off of work a bit early and he's waiting in the car and I'm sure Tommy is impatient for a breastfeed so I'm going to take them and go," Molly said, reaching out towards Tommy. Sherlock stepped forward and transferred the baby with obvious relief on his face. "I'll be in at Bart's on Monday morning, so just come by and let me know what I owe you, all right?" 

"Owe -?" John began, but Molly flapped a free hand at him before leaning to scoop up her changing bag. 

"I'm paying for this. Think of it as a client paying you to _prevent_ a murder, because if I'd had to take them _with_ me today, I would've - nevermind. I have to go. Thank you so much!" And then Molly, Tommy in her arms and Ginger clinging to her pocket again, swept out of the sitting room with Mrs. Hudson following behind, cooing at Tommy. 

For several long seconds after the sitting room door shut, Sherlock and John stood in a stunned silence, staring at each other with the expressions of men who had seen horrors. 

"Tea?" John finally asked, his voice slightly hoarse from shouting over Ginger for the past ten minutes. 

"Please?" Sherlock said, moving towards the sofa with the careful slowness of a man twice his age. He sank to the cushions and leaned his head back, releasing a heavy sigh. 

When John stepped back into the sitting room a few minutes later, Sherlock had not moved. John settled the mugs of tea on the coffee table and sat down next to Sherlock, sliding one arm gently behind Sherlock's back. 

"We survived," John offered, leaning his head onto Sherlock's shoulder. 

"John, I don't want any of those," Sherlock said, lifting his head from the back of the sofa to stare at the shorter man, his gaze intense. "It was fascinating watching them, and in their moments of clarity they were actually rather pleasant to be around... but I never want one of those." 

"Children, you mean?" John asked. "Well, since neither of us can _gestate_ -" 

"I don't think I ever want to be _responsible_ for one again, either," Sherlock said, plunging both hands into his hair and leaning forward over his own knees. "Their actions are completely unpredictable and their emotions explode out of them at the slightest provocation. And you never get a second to yourself. You're constantly responding to the demands of... of a tiny dictator!" 

John snorted softly, casting a wry glance at Sherlock. "Can't _imagine_ what that's like. But, really, Sherlock, children aren't _always_ that bad." 

"You don't want one, do you?" Sherlock asked, hands dropping to his knees as he twisted to stare at John with horror in his eyes. 

"Not really, no. Our life isn't really a good one for children. We had to put absolutely everything on hold today while we were watching over Ginger and Tommy. I noticed you trying to get back to your experiments, but Tommy wouldn't let you. I think I've actually read the same article in the paper six times, but I'm still not sure if I'm reading about a political scandal or a review of a newly released book. And, did you ever call the morgue about Mr. Ruford's body?" 

Sherlock sat up straight, his face alarmed as he tore his mobile out of his pocket and checked the time before leaping off the sofa and moving towards the sitting room door. "We still have time to make it there and check the body. We can clear a man's name if we hurry. Come on, John!" 

John sighed softly, sending a rueful glance at his mug of tea as he pushed himself off the sofa. "Never get a second to myself," he murmured, his voice fond as he smiled faintly before turning to hurry after Sherlock. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading this fic. If you haven't yet, please take a moment to leave Kudos (and, if you are reading this Note at the very end, I assume you enjoyed it enough to WANT to leave Kudos). Comments are my addiction; I love to chat. Don't hesitate to ask questions or just say how much you enjoyed reading.
> 
> You can follow my Tumblr for updates and random writerly musings plus reblogs of Johnlock theories and metas that catch my attention: pixchuu221b.tumblr.com
> 
> See you in the next fanfic.


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